


Queen of Love and Beauty

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Competition, Friendship, Future Fic, Jousting, Marriage, Multi, Romance, tournament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tourney was never Shireen's wish. Maester Pylos, of all people, first suggested it, and the rest of Shireen's council thought it a splendid plan. No doubt the idea had come out of some historical tome the maester had read - Shireen wasn't sure if he would even be able to hum a love song under pain of torture. "I refuse to marry someone simply because he can knock a man off a horse," she insisted, quiet but stubborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Love and Beauty

The tourney was never Shireen's wish. Maester Pylos, of all people, first suggested it, and the rest of Shireen's council thought it a splendid plan. No doubt the idea had come out of some historical tome the maester had read - Shireen wasn't sure if he would even be able to hum a love song under pain of torture. "I refuse to marry someone simply because he can knock a man off a horse," she insisted, quiet but stubborn.

"No, of course not, my lady," Ser Rolland Storm said. "No one is suggesting that you must promise to wed the winner. But the victor's purse will serve to draw eligible noblemen and knights to Dragonstone, and give you the opportunity to meet them, and for them to meet you..."

"Like horses on market day," Shireen muttered under her breath. "What think you, my Lord of the Rainwood?"

Devan Seaworth weighed his words carefully before replying, as he always did. She sometimes jokingly called him her Hand, though only in private - although she had once, for a short while, been a princess, she had always been careful never to give the least appearance of wishing to lay claim to the title of queen. "I think," Devan said at last, "that it's not a bad idea, if only because of the trade a major tourney would bring to the island."

"Aye," added fat Duram Bar Emmon sententiously, "times have been hard, and the smallfolk do like to see a show."

"They like it still more when knights trade gold and silver for their food and lodgings, or need straps repaired on their saddles at the last minute and are willing to pay any sum to the leatherworker who can fix them," Devan said dryly, and Shireen privately blessed him for his common sense, and for seemingly being the only one at the table who was not planning to wed her to the first man with a title and a pulse who was fool enough to take her.

"You are near twenty years old, my lady," Pylos reminded her. "You are the Lady of Dragonstone, the last of the trueborn Baratheons..." As though those facts might have escaped her notice, as though she was not daily reminded that it was her duty to carry on her family's line. Shireen rarely grew angry, but nevertheless a frown creased her face.

"Very well," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "You may send out the ravens with word that there will be a tourney, if you are all so set upon the idea." She stood, and for all that most of them towered over the slight young woman, she nevertheless commanded their full attention in that moment. "On one condition: let the purse be not over-large, else they will joke that I have to bribe men to pay court to me. Surely," she added with a glance to Devan, "the money can be better spent elsewhere."

***

Dragonstone was built on a rocky, volcanic outcropping, and lacked the elaborate tiltyards and tourney grounds that other castles had. The best place for jousting was a flat stretch of hard-packed black sand east of the harbour, practically at the edge of the sea, and so it was there that they set up the lists. From her window, Shireen watched them work with only the mildest interest. Her mind was occupied instead with thoughts of marriage - not a young girl's dreams of romance, but the practical concerns of any unwed highborn lady, seasoned with the weary bitterness of an old maid.

She was ugly, and she knew it well. She had never expected anyone to pay court to her out of desire. But she was highborn, a descendant of kings (though failed ones), the mistress of a castle, and only nineteen years old. She would have expected that at least a few men would be willing to overlook an unfortunate face in exchange for such compensation. And in the months after the war, when her claim to Dragonstone was acknowledged by their new queen and her status as the last true Baratheon was confirmed with the illegitimacy conferred upon Queen Cersei's surviving children, she had indeed received several offers of marriage.

Lord Robert Arryn had been first among them - their fathers had always respected one another, and they were both last of their lines, their houses greatly weakened from their former glory. There had even been talk of their betrothal before Lord Stannis's death, though it had come to nothing at that time. It had seemed a natural match, but she had hesitated. She had heard he was sickly and might not live long, but they had been saying that since he was born and yet, somehow, he still lived. But she could also see that he was petulant, childish, and cruel, and would be awful to live with. She declined as politely as she was able, so as to avoid giving offense. The Starks, similarly decimated, had sent a delegation to sound her interest in marrying Brandon, the crippled one, and she had considered that offer more seriously, even going so far as to inquire of Maester Pylos whether he thought a man who could not walk would nevertheless be able to father children. Pylos had consulted his books, even sent a raven to the Citadel seeking further information, but the best he could come up with was that he could not say - it would depend on the precise nature of the injury, and without examining the young man personally, it was impossible to even hazard a guess. Regretfully, Shireen had declined their offer as well, unwilling to chance her family's survival on an unknown quantity. The Tyrells, ever shameless, had even suggested she might wed Ser Loras, horribly scarred but conveniently stripped of his white cloak. She had not bothered to respond to that missive, but had tossed it into the fire half-read.

 _Cripples,_ she thought. _All of them would see me wedded to the weak, the sickly, the maimed. They would not waste their strong, healthy menfolk on such a wretch as me. Or,_ she thought more cynically, _they simply long to see my line end without issue._ But Shireen was healthy, if perhaps a little on the thin side, and the maester said there was no reason she shouldn't birth healthy children, if she was ever given the chance...

Patchface's bells clanked dolefully, heralding his approach and stirring her from her thoughts. Shireen no longer found his antics as funny as she had when she was a child, but she kept him at her court out of a sense of responsibility. Where else would he go if she were to dismiss him, after all? _"Far and far and far to go, sing hey ho for the carrion crow,"_ the fool sing-songed, and did what amounted to dancing for him, hopping heavily from one foot to the other.

"Nicely done," Shireen told him, patting his fleshy arm. "Can you sing a different one now?"

Patchface did not always respond to her requests, but it no longer frightened her the way it had when she was small. This time, it seemed her appeal had made it through, for he changed his mournful tune to a more cheerful one, though in truth all of his songs had a somewhat melancholy air.

 _"Three for one and one for three  
A crown is floating on the sea  
Three by three and one by one  
Names are lost and hearts are won  
Three will come and two will go  
For it ever must be so  
One for one, and one for thee,  
Turn, turn, turn and see…"_

Shireen was almost grateful when Devan's arrival interrupted the dizzying round, even though he was accompanied by her lady mother. Lady Selyse seemed to have shrunken in on herself since her husband's death, and her mind sometimes wandered, but her tongue could still be sharp as ever, especially when turned against her only daughter.

"Your guests are here," she said, freighting the words with heavy significance. "You should wear your hair down to greet them." There was no need to explain why - Shireen knew that her mother thought it might help to hide the greyscale that marred one side of her face. It was a disagreement they had had on more than one occasion.

"I cannot trick them into thinking me beautiful, mother," Shireen sighed, resisting the urge to immediately tug her hair back more tightly in its ribbon. "So I might as well wear my hair as it pleases me, instead of trying to please them and failing. At least this way one of us will be pleased."

Selyse frowned, her mouth pinched and sour as if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Suit yourself," she only said, in the tone that never failed to make Shireen doubt her decisions, and swept from the room with what little dignity she could still muster.

"Ignore her. Your hair looks fine," Devan said quietly.

"Are there many of them?" Shireen asked, unexpectedly anxious at the prospect of facing her potential suitors.

"Enough," said Devan. "Some surprises among them, too." But he refused to tell her any more, only smiling to himself.

There were above two score of them, as it turned out, a mix of lowborn knights hoping for a chance at a lordship, widowers past their prime, no doubt seeking a new wife who wouldn't tempt their bannermen into adultery, and a few eligible young lords and or sons of lords mingled in amongst them. She recognized a few on sight - her cousin Alester Norcross, Ser Beren Tallhart - and others she could guess. The striking young man with the pale blond hair must be the Lord of Starfall, Edric Dayne. The tall, sharp-featured Dornishman with the olive skin and hair like ink spilling to his shoulders could be no other than Trystane Martell. And beside him, a man even taller, broad through the shoulders and handsome enough but for those ears…

"Edric!" she cried, recognizing him at last. "Edric Storm, is it truly you?" She mentally prepared a tongue-lashing for Devan for not telling her, for by the sly smile on his face he'd known their childhood companion at once.

"It's me," he said with a smile, and moved as if he might sweep her up for a hug before thinking better of it and taking the hand she offered instead.

"Well, I never thought I'd see you here! Or ever again, for that matter." It felt as though no time at all had passed since they'd chased each other, playing Maidens and Monsters, through these very rooms. "Where have you been?"

"Fighting, mostly," he said cheerfully. "The sellsword companies across the Narrow Sea are always looking for strong men to swing a blade. I met Trys - Prince Trystane, I mean - there, and though we hated each other at first, we eventually came to an, ah, understanding. We ended up forming our own company just in time to join up with Queen Daenerys... The rest was just more fighting, really, except over here instead of over there."

"What did you call your company?" she asked, eyes wide.

"I wanted to call us the Great Bastards, but Trys wouldn't have it."

"I'm not a bastard," the prince said with a hint of a smile on his saturnine features. "Nor am I a Stormlord, which was his other suggestion."

"We compromised on the Stormspears," Edric said with a broader grin. "We thought it sounded impressive, at least."

"Very impressive," Shireen agreed. "And so now you've come here…" She left her question unspoken, half-dreading what the answer might be.

"I came to see you," said Edric, and Shireen's stomach gave a tiny, quickly-suppressed flutter. He was still holding her hand, she realized suddenly. "The tourney is just icing on the cake."

"And I came to provide moral support to my comrade-in-arms," Trystane said. _Of course,_ thought Shireen, _he's probably betrothed to someone else already..._ She racked her brains trying to remember who. He was supposed to marry Myrcella at one time, but naturally that never came to pass. One of the Queen's ladies in waiting? She would wait and ask Devan later - he could hold all of these names and faces in his head as easily as cupping an egg in his hand, while they seemed to run like water through her fingers.

"Thank you both for coming," she said, realizing that she was ignoring her other guests. "I'm very glad to see you again."

"And I you," Edric replied, giving her hand a quick squeeze before finally letting it go.

Almost regretfully, Shireen circulated among the other knights and lords, doing her best to learn each of their names and spend at least a few moments speaking to them. Most of them she could rule out quickly enough - too old, too low-born... She knew that in her position she could hardly afford to be choosy, and yet, just for once, she longed to be.

Edric Dayne, however, was not the sort of man any young woman with an ounce of sense would turn up her nose at. He was handsome, strongly-built and yet still graceful, moving with a supple elegance that drew the eye irresistibly to him. They said that he had been an outlaw when he was squire to Beric Dondarrion, and had continued fighting with that band even after his lord finally died. It gave him a certain mystique, a dangerous aura that, despite her better judgment, Shireen found attractive.

"My lady," he said, and bowed low over her hand, touching his lips to it lightly. His eyes, she noticed when he stood again, truly were violet, and very beautiful. "You have a truly magnificent home."

"Thank you. Strange and isolated, but magnificent," she replied, and promptly could have kicked herself for being so ungracious in the face of his kind words.

"Its isolation is indeed a shame, for it means that too few can appreciate its... unique beauty. I feel fortunate to have been given the opportunity." His eyes lingered on hers in a way that made her blush, colouring her unscarred cheek, and Shireen spoke hastily to cover her embarrassment.

"Starfall is quite some distance from here. You've made a long journey to be here today."

"Ah, but meeting you has made the journey well worthwhile." He smiled at her, and Shireen resisted the urge to giggle like a maid, or to laugh in his face.

"You flatter me too much, my lord. I am hardly worth such high praise as you seem determined to give me." She could imagine her mother berating her later for her rudeness, but she could not hold the words back.

"On the contrary," Dayne replied. "I have met many a highborn lady who simpered and stammered, but few who speak so plainly and wisely as you, Lady Shireen."

Shireen was unused to compliments, but she could believe this one. If he had spoken of her beauty, she would have known him for a liar, but his words tempted her into trusting his sincerity. "I thank you, my lord," she said, not knowing what else to reply.

"I only regret that I did not meet you when you were still a princess. I have no doubt that you wore your crown well - and would have reigned well, given the opportunity."

"I had no crown even then, my lord, and no desire for one now," she said swiftly, and made a hasty escape into the relative security of the crowd before he could say more. But she fancied she could feel his eyes following her, and blushed again.

***

The tourney began on the morrow, bright and early. Shireen took her appointed seat in the nobles' stands overlooking the lists, which backed onto the sea. Her lady mother was to her left, staring fixedly at nothing as she did so often these days, and muttering prayers to her lost god under her breath. Devan, as usual, sat at Shireen's right hand. "Do you have a favourite among the competitors?" he asked, sounding at most mildly curious.

Shireen frowned, thinking. She had been restless all night, unable to sleep for the anxious thoughts whirling in her mind, but she had reached no conclusions for all her efforts. "The Lord of Starfall is the most handsome of the lot, and I hear tell he is a skilled warrior as well."

"Certainly he is the most worthy among this rabble," her mother said under her breath. Shireen ignored her as best as she could.

"I've heard that," said Devan grimly. "And an outlaw, at one time. And that he killed Black Walder Frey when he was only fifteen, skewering him through the eye with his sword, and then sent what was left of his head home on a pole to the old lord."

"No doubt he well deserved it," Shireen said absently, watching intently as the knights and lords were armed by their squires or attendants. "Are you of all people suggesting that a good man cannot also be an outlaw?"

"Of course not," Devan replied sharply. "But neither does a handsome face guarantee a good heart."

Shireen was barely listening, so absorbed was she in watching the goings-on below, the various knights arming themselves outside their tents and pavilions. Edric Storm's armour was being adjusted by Prince Trystane himself, she noted with some surprise. Edric Dayne, on the other hand, had a considerable retinue assisting him, including his own personal smith, a strapping man with pitch-black hair and a perpetual frown. The smith looked strangely familiar, but she couldn't imagine where she would have seen him before. She realized abruptly that Devan had said something she hadn't been listening to. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I was only saying that, despite my misgivings, a Dornish lord might be a good match. There has been enmity between our peoples for too long."

"And besides," Shireen added, "it is not unknown for highborn women in Dorne to keep their family names when they wed. I would require that of any man I would marry - what is the point of being the last Baratheon if I simply marry and take another's name?"

"Well, a bastard might well be willing to change his name to match yours, which would be even better, would it not?" Devan said with a subtle intonation she recognized well.

"Just what are you implying, my lord?" she asked, giving him a pointed look.

"Only that it was good to see Edric Storm again, alive and well."

"It is," she agreed, ignoring her mother's muttered disapproval. Selyse had always hated Edric Storm, a constant reminder of the defilement of her marriage bed. "He's done very well for himself, it seems." Storm's shield, she noted, was painted with what must have been the emblem of his company, a red cloud and spear against a black background. She felt Devan's eyes on her, and turned in his direction. "What?"

Devan suddenly became very absorbed in studying his hands. "Nothing."

"Not nothing - you have something on your mind, I can always tell. Out with it!"

"I was thinking that you seemed quite taken with him when you were talking yesterday."

"Taken with him?" Shireen chuckled, and concentrated on not blushing. "I barely know him - we haven't seen each other in ten years."

"Have it your way," Devan only said, turning his gaze back to the sandy plain below. "But infatuation doesn't take long. I didn't suggest you were in love with him, after all."

"I don't expect to love the man I shall marry, never fear." Shireen was relieved when the trumpets sounded to signal the start of the tourney, and she could stop this increasingly awkward conversation.

***

The first day of jousting knocked out half of the competitors. To Shireen's private delight, both Edrics were still in the running. Even though she had insisted that she would never wed someone simply because he could win a tournament, she had begun to worry that the victor would _expect_ to marry her, and that to reject whoever won in favour of someone among the defeated would be taken ill. She would cause offense if she truly must, but it would be so much easier if she did not have to... And so she had secretly rejoiced when either of them unhorsed another knight, though none (save perhaps Devan) would have noticed that she favoured any of the contenders over the others.

That evening, she sat at the high table of the dragon's belly, overlooking the banqueters below. Dragonstone had been a quiet place these past few years, and it felt strange to have the hall ringing with laughter and song. Shireen felt oddly detached from her guests' revelry. Lady Selyse had retired early, giving her daughter a rare few hours of freedom, and yet she felt little urge to take advantage of it. The thought of dancing with her suitors made her more nervous than excited, and the wine tasted like vinegar on her tongue. Patchface capered clumsily between the tables, singing the same lines of a song over and over again, until the Lord of Starfall finally grew irritated enough to cuff him and send him scurrying off. Shireen felt a pang of sympathy for the fool, but trusted that he would have forgotten about the blow before long, and be back to his usual self.

She was startled when Lord Edric stood soon afterwards, his goblet in hand. "A toast," he cried, his voice ringing out over the din of the hall, "to the charming Lady Shireen!"

"The Lady Shireen!" all her guests cried. Shireen, surprised and embarrassed, couldn't help but smile. 'Charming' was not a word that had ever been applied to her before, but it pleased her. She turned to Devan, only to find him staring into the depths of his cup.

"Do you need more wine?" she asked.

"I don't think anyone here needs more wine," he said sourly.

"What is the matter with you?" Shireen hissed under her breath.

"Do you actually believe his foolish toasts? He's only trying to flatter you."

"Are you suggesting I'm not charming, my Lord of the Rainwood?" she said coldly.

"Of course you're not. You're plain-spoken and clever and sensible and you always say what you think. Or at least you used to."

Shireen's expression darkened ominously. "And you used to be my dearest friend."

"And as a friend, I tell you that I mislike the Lord of Starfall, and I think he harbours more affection for your lands and your title - mayhap even your claim to the throne - than he does for you yourself."

"That's quite enough!" Shireen snapped, more loudly than she meant to, which caused some eyes to turn her way. "You are letting some petty personal dislike of the man interfere with your usual good judgment," she added in a low, furious voice. Before Devan could reply, she stood and all but ran away from the table, leaving most of her guests bewildered.

***

If one wanted to be alone, the ruined sept was surely the best spot on the island. Despite the wishes of some of the court, Lady Selyse had never permitted it to be repaired, and so it still stood empty and open to the elements, its stained glass windows shattered and statues fed to the flames of R'hllor ten years ago. Now its rubble was being overgrown with wildflowers. After dark, it was an eerie place, full of shadows and treacherous rocks underfoot, but Shireen knew it well and was not afraid. She wondered sometimes if the gods who had once been housed there had fled, or if they still, in some way, watched over the desecrated ruin. In her youth, she had been taught to worship those gods, before her parents had turned to the faith of the Red Priestess. She had been young enough then that she had automatically joined them in their new religion, although some of its rites, as well as its leader, frightened her to the point of giving her nightmares. Now, with Melisandre and her father dead, she no longer knew what she believed about the gods. All she knew was that she felt at peace there in the abandoned sept, kept company by shadows and flowers. The moon spilled its light through the gaps, making a patchwork pattern on the ground.

Devan, long her closest advisor and companion, was acting like an ass, for what reason she could not tell. Was there truth in his words, or was he simply being over-protective of her? On the morrow, twenty knights would compete for her hand in marriage, and in the end she would be forced to either accept one, or to cause him grave offense by refusing. And she was no longer certain which of the competitors she wanted to win. She lifted her skirt in one hand and clambered up a pile of rubble to perch on the ledge of one of the empty windows and sit for a while. She could lose track of time, sitting there and watching the moon's reflections on the sea, as she and Devan used to when they were children. An hour passed, or closer to two.

She heard them approaching before she saw them, a group of four - servants, perhaps, though not any of her own, for she did not recognize their voices. "Look at this," one was saying. "It's a disgrace they just let it stand like this, fire-worshipping bastards."

"You're one to talk," said another young man, and the rest of the group joined him in laughter.

"Well, there's fire, and then there's fire," said the first speaker, sounding defensive. "Thoros used his power to bring life, not death."

"Dragonstone's all but a ruin these days, why are you surprised their sept is ruined too?" A deeper voice, this one, from a large man.

Someone kicked a rock, which clattered noisily. "You wouldn't really want to live here, though, would you? It's creepy." She thought it might have been a woman's voice, though the silhouetted figure below was slim and short-haired.

More laughter. "Never fear," said the first speaker. He stepped into a sliver of moonlight angling into the sept, and with a chill she recognized the silver glint of Edric Dayne's hair. "If little Patchface'll have me, we won't be here for long."

"Do you think she keeps the fool around so she looks prettier by comparison?" asked the large man.

"Don't be such a prick, Gendry," the woman told him, but the rest of them laughed anyhow as they turned to leave. Shireen felt as though she was frozen - scared they would see her if they chanced to look up, but also cold with anger. She held her breath until she could no longer hear them walking away, and then climbed carefully down. Her legs were shaking and her hands felt like blocks of ice at the end of her arms. As if in a daze, she made her way back to the keep, hood up and keeping to the shadows so she wouldn't be noticed.

She was ashamed of herself for having been so easily taken in by a pretty face, and angry with herself for behaving unfairly as a result. She thought of going to find Devan, to tell him he'd been right all along, but the thought of having to apologize for her mistake just at that moment made her feel queasy. She could speak to him in the morning. At least it makes tomorrow's decision easier, Shireen thought grimly. Quiet as a mouse, she crept up the winding stairs toward her chamber, where once again she completely failed to sleep.

***

On the morrow, Shireen had her maid dress her in her finest gown, the dark blue silk trimmed with gold that seemed to bring out the blue of her eyes, and spent more than her usual few minutes in combing her hair and making sure it was nicely braided. She even clasped a necklace about her scarred throat. If she was going to be humiliated, she decided, she might at least look her best doing so. She was still dreading what she would have to say to Devan when she saw him, almost more than she dreaded the outcome of the tourney, whatever it might be.

However, when she arrived at her seat in the stands, Devan was nowhere to be seen. It was unlike him to be late - in fact, he was almost always early for things. All through the herald's announcements of the various competitors' names and ranks, she expected him to slip quietly into his usual seat beside hers, but he didn't. She felt an unexpected surge of resentment - he had left her here, alone, to deal with what might well be one of the most important moments of her life! - but it was quickly replaced with worry for him. She hoped he wasn't ill. With a few murmured words, she dispatched a servant to look for him and make sure he was all right.

The second day's competition was of a higher calibre than the first - even Shireen, who had little interest in jousting, could tell that the better warriors had made it through, and so each match seemed to take longer, not simply a single charge and one man falling to the ground. The sun rose higher in the sky as the day dragged on. Both Edrics had defeated their morning opponents, and from the gossip of the lords seated nearby, they both seemed likely to make it to the final round, barring any unexpected reversals or accidents. Shireen found herself praying - to whom, she wasn't sure - for the Lord of Starfall's horse to throw a shoe at a crucial moment, but there was no such luck. At noon, Shireen and the other nobles in her box were served a light repast of flaky white fish topped with apricot compote and all wrapped in soft, flat bread to keep their hands clean. She could barely eat two bites.

After lunch, her messenger boy returned with word that he had been unable to locate the Lord of the Rainwood, and did milady wish him to keep looking? From the lad's eager glances in the direction of the jousting grounds, she knew it would be cruel to ask him to continue the search. For him, this was a day of excitement the likes of which rarely came to Dragonstone, rather than the day when the course of the rest of his life might be determined. He was so visibly excited and grateful when she gave him permission to watch the remainder of the tourney instead of searching that she couldn't help but smile a little as he ran off, despite her worries.

The sun was lowering in the sky, red and wavering, when the final match took place. As Shireen had first hoped, then dreaded, the field had narrowed and narrowed until finally only Edric Dayne and Edric Storm remained. Each had already fought two other opponents that day, and Shireen could tell they were both weary, but determined. As they took their respective places at opposite ends of the grounds, she wished once more that Devan was there to advise her on how best to - diplomatically, but firmly - handle the outcome, whatever it might be.

Even though the trumpets had been sounding all day, when they rang out this time to signal the start of the joust, she jumped a little in her seat. The horses' hooves pounded across the sand. The stable boys had combed the field after each match to smooth the pitch again, but nevertheless the ground was less stable than it had been on the first day, having been turned up and chewed by so many feet. Both riders were skilled, but Shireen could see the difficulty they must be having in controlling their mounts on such shifting, dangerous terrain.

The first clash of lances on shields drew cheers from the crowd, but both men managed to keep their seats. They wheeled around, grabbing new lances from waiting squires to replace those they had splintered, and prepared for a second go. Shireen held her breath.

On the second charge, Storm's lance touched the falling star on his opponent's purple shield, then slid off to catch the young lord in the chest, knocking him back. Dayne fell to the sand with a heavy thud, and Shireen's heart leapt. But just as her childhood companion lifted the stump of his lance in victory, his horse slipped in the loose sand, sending him off-balance. Edric tried valiantly to keep his seat, but failed, crashing to the ground himself. Both men's squires hurried over to see if they were hurt, bringing their swords so that the fighting could continue on foot if neither was too injured to carry on. After a long, tense moment, the crowd cried out its delight when both stood and took up their swords.

Metal clashed against metal as they battled fiercely, feet sliding on the sand. Shireen caught herself biting her nails, and forced herself, with some difficulty, to stop. Both were seasoned warriors, and the fight was not likely to be ended quickly. Edric Storm had the greater strength, but Dayne, she thought, had more skill with the sword. She remembered Devan's story of what he had done to Black Walder Frey, and shuddered slightly. When she was a girl, the prospect of two men fighting over her hand in marriage might have seemed glamourous, like something out of a story, but now it merely made her feel sick. How would she live with herself if a man - either man - died for her sake? It all seemed so pointless.

She stood, intending to call out for a stop to the combat. All eyes turned at her movement, except for the Lord of Starfall's. His opponent's momentary distraction gave him an opening, and he took it without hesitation. His sword caught Storm in the leg, sending him to the ground with a cry that was matched that of the crowd.

Leaving his opponent writhing on the ground, Edric Dayne remounted his horse and approached the noble stands. He drew off his greathelm, tossing it aside. Shireen could see the exhaustion on his handsome face, his fair hair plastered down with sweat, but also the look of triumph in his eyes. From the master of the games, he retrieved the crown of Love and Beauty, and bore it across the field towards Shireen, raising his bloodied sword with the other hand to salute her. "For the fairest maiden here," he said, presenting the crown to her.

Shireen leaned down and took the crown with trembling hands. It was lovely, woven of roses, all pale pink and purple. It would be so easy, she thought, to place it on her brow and smile, to accept what was being offered to her - so easy, and so false. "My Lord of Starfall," she said, making sure she spoke loudly so that all would hear, "you are clearly mistaken. There are many maidens fairer than me. Perhaps you meant to give this crown to Patchface instead."

Dayne blinked, startled, and the crowd, after a moment's stunned silence, began to laugh. "My lady," he stammered, but Shireen cut him off.

"No matter," she said. "I shall dispose of it." She tossed the crown of flowers into the air, where the stiff sea breeze caught it and carried it over the heads of the gathered nobles and into the lapping waves. It floated for some time before one wave, larger than the others, swamped it and made it sink. "I give my utmost thanks and congratulations to all the competitors, and I believe I shall now retire." Ignoring her mother's offended squawk and the disbelieving stares of their guests, she left the stands with all the dignity she still possessed.

***

Shireen wandered the castle aimlessly until sunset. Wisely, no one approached her. She felt strangely relieved, but still as though there was a weight hanging over her - just a somewhat lesser weight than before. _Better to do it now and get it over with,_ she decided at last, and made her way to Edric Storm's rooms. Maester Pylos was just leaving. "Is he going to be all right?" she asked.

"He'll live, though there may be a limp, depending on how it heals," Pylos said gravely. "He was fortunate the blade struck him with the flat, rather than the edge."

"Good," said Shireen, greatly relieved. At least Edric's death was not on her conscience too. Striding forward before she could think the better of it, she opened the door to his room, only to be stopped by what she saw within.

Prince Trystane half-sat, half-lay on the edge of Edric's bed. Their hands were clasped tightly, and the prince's lips were pressed against Edric's with a desperate hunger, as though he had feared he might lose him. They broke the kiss when they saw Shireen standing there, and Trystane stood hastily. "My lady," he said, with a perfunctory bow. "I'll leave you two alone."

Shireen waited until he'd left the room, then turned on the injured Edric. "When were you planning to tell me? _Would_ you have told me?"

"I don't know," Edric said, shamefaced, propping himself up on his elbows with only a slight grimace. "I planned to, but I don't know if I would have managed, or not without making a hash of it."

"You love him." It was not a question, nor did she need to hear his answer - she knew it for truth by the look on his face.

"I respect you, Shireen. I care about you."

"But you don't love me."

"I hardly know you, at least the person you've become. But I think if there was any woman I could be happy with, it would be someone like you."

Shireen scoffed. "You would settle for me, then?"

"That wasn't what I meant," he protested. "But I thought, our friendship... that perhaps, because of that, we could make things work... Many a marriage has been based on less than friendship, after all."

"Friendship," she said slowly, as if the word was unfamiliar to her. "Yes. Friendship." It was as though a thought was blossoming in her mind, something so obvious that she should have seen long ago. "Thank you, Edric. I hope you'll recover quickly, and have a long and happy life with your prince." Before he could say another word, she fled the room.

***

It was dark in the sept, but she could tell at once that it was not deserted. She ought to have known at once where he would go, but she had been so preoccupied with the tourney that she hadn't thought... well, there had been a lot of things she should have thought of, but hadn't. "Devan?" she called, her voice echoing off the stones.

He hopped down lightly from the window ledge they had shared so often as children. "So, which Edric did you choose?" he asked quietly.

"Neither one."

"Neither? Damn it, Shireen, this is going to be a disaster! You'll have to go and try to make your apologies to one of them, maybe a match can still be salvaged..."

"No," she said. "I don't. I don't have to marry either one of them if I don't want to. There's a perfectly good man for me, and he's right here."

She could see the glint of Devan's eyes in the moonlight as he blinked, startled. "You... you can't mean that," he said. "My father was born in Flea Bottom. I'm no one important."

"To me you are. You've been my friend - for years, you were my only friend. I was too foolish to see what was before me. It wasn't just a simple dislike of Edric Dayne that made you cross with me - you were jealous of him."

She thought he might have blushed, but it was difficult to tell in the half-light. "Maybe. But I still didn't like him, either. I wouldn't have minded so much if you had married Edric Storm... Why aren't you, by the way?"

"Because if I'm going to take a husband based on friendship, I would rather at least have someone who isn't pining for another love. You're not secretly in love with someone and haven't told me, are you?" she asked lightly.

"Actually, I am." Before her face had time to fall, he took her hand in his. "Shireen, I've loved you for so long, I can barely remember a time when I didn't."

"Why didn't you say anything, stupid?"

"After that long, what can you even say? I didn't think you felt anything for me, and so I tried to put it out of my mind. But when I thought I was going to lose you today, I could hardly bear it. I spent my day here making this..." He reached up onto the ledge and drew down a clumsily-made crown of wildflowers, lavender and anemones and daisies, and handed it to her.

"Oh, Devan," she said, her voice shaking. She wondered if she was about to cry or laugh as she put it on. "Does it suit me?"

"Perfectly," he told her, and drew her into his arms to kiss her for the first time, but far from the last, between the windows once dedicated to the Mother and the Father, where the marriage altar used to be. One of his hands curved at her neck, brushing lightly against the tough scars of the greyscale, but she did not flinch away.

"Does that mean you _will_ marry me, then?" she asked when they finally separated, more than a little breathless.

"Don't be silly," he told her affectionately. "Of course I will."

"You'd give up your name and take mine?"

"It's not such an old name, and my brothers can do the job of carrying it on. I don't mind becoming Devan Baratheon, if that's what you wish."

"I do," she said, and kissed him again.


End file.
